Ghosts of the Past
by millennium-night
Summary: Taking a holiday from spreading fear in Gotham, Jonathan Crane was looking foreward to visiting the huge library with his friend Tetch. But when he dicovers an exceptionally old copy of "The Phantom of the Opera", the story won't let go of him any more...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story is a crossover between 'Batman' and 'The Phantom of the Opera'. The narration will focus on Jonathan Crane's (aka the Scarecrow's) thoughts and experiences. My target audience are mainly fans of said villain as a way to introduce them to the Phantom story, of which no prior knowledge is required (just spreadin' the awesomeness :D ). Then again, it will not be a retelling of the horror classic and follow a new plot instead._

_So much for the introduction, and now I hope you enjoy reading. If you have any questions, comments, aspects of criticism etc, don't hesitate to write them. Feedback is always appreciated. ;)_

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><p>The librarian was an old man of a sickly frame and a strangely subservient posture, for he constantly kept his nearly bald head bowed. Thus, his intelligent, green eyes used to look up at people even as short as the Mad Hatter above the frame of a pair of thick glasses.<p>

"To answer your question," he said in a friendly, grandfatherly manner while leading his two guests through the twisted corridors between the countless rows of impressively tall, wooden book shelves, "of course we have a section with old classics. This library is proud to call even some valuable originals its own, but I would prefer you to stick to the reprinted versions, if you know what I mean."

Although he had spoken to both men, he always seemed to address mainly Jonathan who had donned a sweater with a brown and beige check, which made him, in addition to his own glasses and unobtrusively gray trousers, thoroughly look like a cliché bookworm. Of course the tall, auburn-haired man was as oblivious to this as the librarian was to the fact that he was dealing with two experienced criminals who were badly wanted by the police in their far-off home – but the old man had nothing to fear, for the strangers meant no harm and had merely come for this building's famous collection of rare literature.

"These are really a lot of books," Jervis remarked in awe with his slightly British accent, looking about himself while walking. Absentmindedly, his partner-in-crime nodded in silent agreement. Jonathan's gaze would not leave the slim novellas and boldly lettered tomes, and he as well felt the urge to run a hand over the rough, leathery surface of their backs.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity to the impatient Hatter, the group reached a small, solid door, probably made of teak wood. The librarian took the overloaded key ring from its noose at his belt – the clanking noise of metal against metal reverberated with the high ceiling in the deserted corridors – and chose a shiny golden one to unlock the door. With a genuine smile, which was almost entirely hidden by his bushy, white mustache, the old man turned toward his guests and pulled the door – which was obviously quite heavy, for it took him some effort – open.

Immediately a wave of stale air hit the three of them. In case they had not noticed the smell of ancient paper before, now its intensity was unmistakable. Jervis observed his friend growing more enthusiastic with every second he eyed the room before them. This trip was worth it, after all, and even he, who had reluctantly agreed to join his ally and leave his beloved trademark hat behind for the sake of remaining incognito, had to admit his own excitement over the promise of seeing an original copy of Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

"I am going to leave you alone now. You look like two fellows who appreciate the value of a good book, so I trust you not to touch the copies in the showcase. Feel free to read everything else, I'll check on you later" the librarian's voice sounded from behind them, audibly pleased by the men's reaction, and he stepped forward to press a switch which illuminated the room with the dim shine of a small, single light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. "But watch out for the ghosts, some people say this chamber is haunted." The old man laughed and gave them a teasing wink. With this, he closed the door behind him and went off humming a catchy tune.

A surprised whistle through the teeth escaped Jonathan's mouth as he admired the old covers whose colors were faded due to the influence of light and dust over the decades. Turning to his companion, he said, "I still cannot believe that he allowed us to view the library's treasures, let alone without his vigil. Do you, by any chance, have something to do with this?" He shot the Hatter a meaningful glance.

"Not exactly. The guy's just too trustful, I suppose. But-" Jervis paused for emphasis and raised his hand to push a shock of golden hair aside, revealing a slim, red mind control head band hidden beneath his untamed bangs, "-I will take care that he won't come back too early." He displayed his typical toothy Cheshire grin in such a child-like manner that the taller man, who was known as the infamous Scarecrow, could barely stifle a chuckle.

Indeed Jonathan was in a jovial mood, for this place offered more than he could ever wish for. With both arms spread he took the whole collection of horror novels from its place in the book shelf at once, embracing the weight of so much promising literature with joyful anticipation.

Instead of taking a seat in the stuffed chair at the neat writing desk beneath the light source, he simply sat down on the floor next to it and deposed the books in small heaps all about him.

Briefly he flinched at a loud, squeaking outcry which rang in his ears for a while with its familiar, penetrating pitch. Quite obviously, Jervis had just found his object of interest. For the self-proclaimed Master of Fear, this meant that he would have all the time in the world to lose himself in the endless oceans of words and letters. Relaxed, he settled back against the table's solid rear, his long legs folded in a position which could impossibly be thought comfortable by anyone else, and reached for his first read.

Yet when he picked it up, he merely frowned at the title – he already knew this one! Reluctantly he put it back and scanned his surroundings for a second choice until his gaze rested on a copy in a plain, particularly old cover beside him. Encouraged by its simple beauty, he brought the slim novel to the level of his eyes and adjusted his glasses to decipher the smooth, elegant writing on its front:

"The Phantom of the Opera...?" Jonathan murmured and doubtfully raised an eyebrow at the hand-written ink. "Certainly this one must be very old," he estimated and quickly wondered why it had been standing among the common prints instead of inside the safe glass case.

With a shrug he opened it at the first page and while holding it with due diligence, he ran his thumb over the yellowed, parchment-like paper. Curious, he began to read.


	2. Chapter 2

_Once upon another time, there was an angel dwelling in the darkest vaults beneath the Paris Opera House. His voice was divine, for it bore the rare gift of lifting peoples' hearts to the heavens. He was a genius in many ways – yet it lay beyond his powers to escape his own prison of loneliness, because nature had cursed him with the face of a demon. Thus, he had only been met with hatred during his time on Earth, more than any angel was able to bear. As a result, his golden soul began to wither, and he learned to abuse his unearthly gift. Those who were hapless enough to get entangled in his web of imaginations were oblivious to the fact that he was pulling them down into his abyss of despair. Unfortunately, so was he..._

The pages were turning so fast that the words were almost flying past his eyes. Within what felt like minutes Jonathan had devoured a great deal of his novel. Only the growing sensation of pain caused him to emerge from the depths of fiction; his spine ached terribly from the upright, wooden surface he was using as his backrest, telling him that the time he had spent reading was anything but short.

However, it was worth it, he judged. While he did not really care about the field of music naturally being addressed in a book holding 'opera' in its title, he had to admit that the character of the Phantom bore a certain appeal. Crane, being an expert in fear and ways of inflicting it, found himself fascinated by the influence this man exerted over the clue- and helpless opera cast. Besides playing the ghost by startling the young ballerinas with eerie, disembodies whispers – Jonathan made a mental note of getting the technical equipment to try this trick himself – the Phantom did not fail to pose a very real threat to the managers of the building by sending blackmails. In fact, the villain pretty much identified with the character.

Safe for one aspect: Like many of his fictional predecessors, the Phantom had made the mistake of falling for some unworthy girl who would never be able to understand his reasons. Unrequited love. Crane knew it well, for he had experienced it many times before. Then, one day, he had realized that these feelings were merely obstacles in his quest, a weakness he would no longer succumb to.

_Well, so this guy is no true Master but rather some kind of "Supply Teacher of Fear". _

Jonathan chuckled at his private joke. Having grown tired, he sighed and stretched his arms and shoulders with a yarn. Since the room possessed no window, he glimpsed at his watch to find that it was about quarter to midnight. Surely the library had closed its gates long ago – the Hatter had done a good job keeping the elderly employee at bay.

It would be for the best if he just 'borrowed' the book to finish it the next day, he decided. It was difficult to focus his gaze on the squiggly handwriting as the ink flickered with the yellowish candlelight.

_...Candlelight?_ He spun round and his eyes darted to the tabletop where a weak flame was struggling for its life on the stump of a nearly burnt-down candle. The greyish, molten wax had collected in the ancient, flat bowl with a handle of brass, enabling one to carry the light source about. Seeing it was an odd sensation; standing there, the candle seemed as natural an object as anything else. Still, Crane's mind refused to grasp its existence as a given fact.

_Wasn't there supposed to be a light bulb?_

Jonathan had been staring into the tiny, rebellious flame for quite a while when it suddenly went out, divesting him of the cause of his confusion. He shook his head and rubbed his weary eyes, which were only slowly getting used to the utter darkness.

"Jervis?" he called out to his companion in crime, "Go and find a light switch or a match or... whatever! I don't want to grope my way out of here!"

No one replied.

"Jervis?" he tried again, this time a little louder. He was becoming nervous; his fingers clutched the old book as he leapt to his feet.

Silence.

_Very well._ Blinking several times, Crane was able to recognize faint outlines of furniture and walls. As he had expected, he could spot several lines of book-filled shelves. Yet, they did not strike him as familiar. Something was terribly wrong, he could sense it.

"Monsieur?" a voice suddenly sounded from his right, startling him to the core.

He managed to stifle a yelp of surprise, and immediately was embarrassed by his overreaction. As the fearsome Scarecrow, one of the most wanted rogues of Gotham, he could not allow himself to be caught off guard!

Jonathan turned his head to the silhouette of a man and heard a sound of creaking wood – someone undid a traditional, fire-lit lantern. Dim at first, the warm light soon began to illuminate the small room with its full power. Standing in the door frame was a formally clad gentleman holding up a shabby, blue lamp. His fair hair was strictly combed back, and the slim line of his mustache bent oddly with his upper lip as he spoke,

"You may excuse my direct approach, but the library is already closed, and I have personal matters to attend to."

While Crane was still struggling for words to give a reasonable reply, the stranger took this chance to eye his exceptionally tall opposite suspiciously.

"O- of course, I was just about to leave," the villain asserted, finally having straightened himself.

The suited man raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I am sure you were. You happened to overlook the sign saying 'Access for library staff only', I assume?" Although his voice remained remarkably polite, a spark of contempt in his gaze gave away that he had reached the very wise conclusion of viewing Jonathan as a threat.

"Please, allow me to help you find your way, Monsieur." The clerk stepped aside and showed the corridor with his open palm – an unambiguous gesture screaming 'Get the hell out of here before I call the police'.

Crane clenched his jaws, boiling with anger. Most people who had foolishly dared to treat him in this manner had not survived to date! With great effort he managed to swallow his temper, shooting his opposite a challenging glance. First, he had to analyse his situation properly before taking actions he might later regret, he told himself. Whatever weird game was being played here, he was obliged to play along – for now, that is.

Without waiting for another request, Crane quickly slid the old book under his sweater, looked about himself to see if at least his bag was still there – it was not – and hurtled off.

On his way out he was again confronted with the fact that the library was indeed a different one. The architecture itself was already admirable and nothing like the modern, American skyscraper he had originally entered. Still, everything looked slightly... _old-fashioned_. Alas, he hardly had the time to regard the spectacular, oval reading room with its impressively high columns supporting the dome-shaped ceiling, for presently, he was occupied with another quite disturbing thought infiltrating into his mind.

The clerk's humble lantern combined with the dim rays of moonlight shining through the circular windows above their heads were enough to make out different shapes and objects in the hall. There were no computers or cables to be seen, and instead of electric lighting there were only the glass bulbs of petrol lamps attached to the walls – a rather unmindful decoration considering the environment. The oddly tailored suit the stranger wore, the French form of address he had used, the obvious lack of any kind of technical device... the man known as the Scarecrow did not have to be a criminal genius to put two and two together.

"Where am I!" Jonathan blurted out, stopping short. He turned and seized the troublesome watchdog, who had never left his back to make sure that the unwelcome intruder left, by his elegantly tailored collar. "Tell me where the hell I am, and what date it is today!"

"Why, this is the _Bibliothèque nationale de France_, Paris. And today's the 23rd of November,"the clerk replied hastily, taken by surprise.

_No, you gibbering idiot! _"The year, tell me the year!" Crane urged, lifting the poor man even closer to his face. He needed this information at all cost, even if this meant he had to squeeze it out of that man! Adapting the most terrifying grimace possible without the Scarecrow mask he traditionally used on his heists, he tried to intimidate the clerk.

"Monsieur!" the Frenchman protested with great indignation, "It's 1880, and now I demand that you get your hands off of me in an instant!"

So Jonathan did. The stranger hit the wooden floor with a bump, ranting and raving about such an insolent treatment. _Paris in 1880? That's exactly what that novel is set in!_

During his studies of clinical psychology, Crane had been trained to reckon up a person's character. It was nearly impossible to lie to him, and he was certain that what he had just been told was the truth. From the clerk's point of view, at least. Ignoring the fuming Frenchman, he tried to imagine a few scenarios that could have brought him _right into_ the piece of fiction.

_Possibility no. 1: Some of my rivals or victims or both are wreaking their revenge on me. _Hell, there were enough people who had a reason to hate him that much. But how could they create such an illusion? What was the use?

_No. 2: The Batman and his brat found me... somehow. I'm either with them or in that freaking lunatic asylum again. _Whoever his captors were, they had drugged with some horribly strong hallucinogen, that was for sure._ Still, they couldn't have traced me here, could they? _Besides, this world made too much sense to be the invention of a fantasizing mind.

_Of course, that's because it's the creation of a clear mind! _Jervis, the little rat! How dare he play his mind control tricks on him, the Master of Fear! _If you are in my head, Hatter, then you should consider this: End this stupid experiment immediately, or you'll be the one I test my next fear toxin on!_

…

Nothing happened. Unfortunately, the only possibilities left were that he had actually traveled back in time – _Oh, don't be silly!_ – or, even less likely, that he had eventually gone crazy.

Perhaps–  
>The villain' s musings were harshly interrupted.<p>

"I strongly advise you to see a doctor," the clerk shouted angrily and shoved Jonathan out. The door was slammed shut behind him, leaving the Scarecrow alone in a snowy, deserted street.

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><p><em>AN: Long chapter is long. Sorry for the lack of phantoms, but I needed a point for Jonathan to start. Poor him - oddly enough, stopping at this point feels like leaving a puppy in the rain. XD  
>By the way, I would love to spice this with tons of French expressions, but, alas, I don't speak a word of the language. <em>  
><em>Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. :)<em>


	3. Chapter 3

"Snobbish fop!" Crane growled under his breath, a small, white cloud evaporating from his mouth. Producing "The Phantom of the Opera" from the inside of his sweater, he clutched the book firmly under his arm and stuck both hands into the pockets of his trousers to protect them from the cold.

The sky was covered with clouds, which sent millions of dancing snowflakes to the earth. Now and then a few icy crystals settled down on the smooth surface of the tall man's glasses, leaving tiny droplets of water wherever they had touched the material.  
>Dawn was not far away, for the horizon was dyed in a deep cyan. The snow lying on the window sills, the handrails of the balconies and on the cobbled ground reflected the faint light, making the morning seem closer than it was.<p>

Jonathan had never been to Paris before. As a child, he had once wanted to go there after happening to see some beautiful pictures of the city in a book at school. Having grown up in Iowa, he had spent a great deal of his youth knowing nothing but his rural home, the vast plains of open space and the dusty fields of corn. But when he had pleaded with his grandmother to take him to a trip to France during the summer vacations, she had reacted with outrage, yelling at him something about responsibility and money. He had never asked her again.

At this moment, he cursed his previous lack of interest in the subject of European History. How could he be sure that there was no war about to start? All these well-known monuments such as the Eiffel Tower, whose soaring peak was nowhere to be seen – had they even been built yet? Thus, alone in this metropolis, he was left no choice but to discover it on his own – so he began with making himself familiar with this new environment.

A long row of traditional street lanterns seamed the broad avenue every few metres until it made a turn around a corner and out of Jonathan's view. Next and opposite to the library, a series of conformable townhouses towered above even the leafless trees and spread endlessly in both directions. He followed the street to the next crossroads only to find a depressingly similar arrangement of buildings. A peaceful slumber cloaked the entire district with an eerie silence.  
>"Geez, this is like a maze!" he breathed both with awe and consternation, at once losing all hope of finding his way.<p>

Usually, Jonathan was what people would call a lone wolf. He hated crowds as much as he hated any intrusion into his privacy. Whenever he prepared a new crime or brewed one of the hallucinogenic chemical cocktails, which were his favourite, because most effective weapon, he relied on no one but himself. However, from time to time he enjoyed some selected company. Preferably, this person had to able to deal with his tetchiness and chronically bad temper, and restrict himself to listening so as not to annoy him. In fact, it was just that he did not like to share his plannings with a wall.  
>Not many people had managed to meet these demands so far, but some of them kept appearing nonetheless and strained his nerves by chattering about childish fairy tales. <em>By the way, where on earth is the Hatter when he is needed for once?<em>

The cold became stronger. Slowly it crept up Jonathan's spine, permeating the ludicrous barrier of his trousers, shirt and sweater like nothing. Meanwhile, a great amount of snowflakes glistened like dew drops in the morning between the strands of his short, auburn hair. Obviously, he was not dressed for spending the night in the snow – when he had last seen the sun, it had been late August, after all!  
>He could not exactly tell why, but the total lack of life signs about made him nervous. In Gotham City, one could always meet a few dubious businessmen or drunk night owls in the streets, no matter how late the hour. Could it be that he was trapped in this strange vision without any other beings? <em>No<em>, he remembered. At least he knew that there had to be people somewhere since he had met the French librarian, which was quite reassuring.

Right at this moment, a series of clanking blows reverberated in the corridor between the houses – first from afar, then it was notably approaching. Crane turned to see a horse trotting by, pulling a simple, unadorned carriage along behind it. The coachman guiding the animal behaved so passively that from the distance, one could easily mistake him for a part of the vehicle.

The coach stopped shortly after it had passed the freezing villain. The silhouette of a man appeared in the window. He leaned his upper body out of the opening, supporting his weight by grasping the wooden frame to his left and right. On his head he wore a hat shaped in a way Jonathan had never seen before, and the full, black beard which was growing on his cheeks was cut with perfect accuracy – the twilight made it hard to make out any more details.

"May I help you somehow?" a strong, chesty voice asked with a heavy accent Crane could not clearly assign.

Surprised, he pondered over the offer for a few seconds. Should he accept? This world could impossibly be real, he had decided for himself. So what harm could it do to interact with the people living in it?

Not being aware of it, Jonathan shivered miserably.

"Are you all right?" his opposite probed, interrupting his thoughts. The first signs of impatience were now resonating with the question.

"I'm fine, thank you," Jonathan assured. He could not help shooting a longing gaze at the sheltered interior of the carriage.

Quite obviously, the man understood the hint, but the look on his face was not pleased. He had most likely only stopped for the sake of decency and not expected to actually be bothered, Crane assumed. However, the silhouette at the window disappeared and without another word, the carriage door was opened from the inside shortly after.  
>Quickly, the tall American accepted the reluctant invitation before it was withdrawn.<p>

They traveled on in silence. Thus protected from the wind, Crane was able to relax for the first time since this adventure had begun. He stuck his cold fingers under his armpits and leaned back, the book resting on his lap. How exceptionally tired he was! Since his opposite did not deign to look at him, he followed his example and allowed his gaze to roam about the wintery landscape passing by outside.

During the first years of his career as the Scarecrow, all those weeks of playing cat and mouse with Gotham's security forces every time he had escaped Arkham, the asylum for the criminally insane these slaves of society had wrongly locked him up in, had left him insensible to rough weather conditions. However, with time he had learned to become more careful and more thorough with his undertakings, with great success. By now he was familiar with every inch of the city from the mansions of the rich and famous to the dirty maze of sewers interconnecting nearly all buildings.

The first rays of dawn broke through the cover of clouds. Before his eyes, the trees and houses blurred to a mishmash of white and grey.

Eventually, he had even managed to afford a permanent hideout and consequently, a cozy place he could make his own. He had indulged his body, and, unfortunately, had to bear the consequences now.

The whole world vibrated with the steady blows of hooves on the uneven cobblestones. The sounds, movements and colours added up to a mesmerising union.

Slowly, Jonathan Crane drifted off to sleep.

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><p><em>AN: This chapter is heavily focused on psychological aspects - lots of character insight, less action. Who is the stranger in the carriage, can you guess? ;) _  
><em>By the way, I'm thinking about illustrating the chapters of this story as well. What do you think?<br>I got a few interesting ideas as regards the plot. Let's see what this leads to... Thanks for reading - feedback is always welcome :)_

_edit: I corrected some minor typos.  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

Nothing surrounded him, literally. It was not that it was dark or bright, and neither hot nor cold for that matter, he just did not seem to receive any input. Pure consciousness floating in an empty nothingness. In fact, this condition was highly unsettling.

"_What is being played here"_, he wanted to scream, but lacked the lips to do it.

However, someone, or _something_, had heard him. "You know where you are, am I right?"

At once a million of thoughts ran through his non-existent head. First, he began to realize that he was dreaming. A dream within a dream, of sorts. Assuming this, he had consequently expected to face his alter ego, who enjoyed haunting his nightmares to a dismaying degree. Instead, the incorporeal voice sounded totally alien to him, and it was free from any distinguishable emotion. Slightly frustrated, he thought, "_The hell I know! I'm somewhere near Gotham within a radius of 150 km and apparently, I'm still hallucinating. And who are you anyway? I demand that you answer my question!"_

"Wrong place, you know exactly where you are. By the way, your home town has yet to be built. I apologize, but I cannot grant your request."

"_You cannot– do you even have the slightest clue who you are addressing? I won't be toyed with!"_

"Be assured that I am aware of that. If you cooperate, you will be sent back sooner than you think."

"_Oh really. And what if I refuse to'cooperate'?"_

"You of all people will understand that I took some precautions for this case."

A second, almost panicking voice materialized in the void, a piercingly familiar one. "Jonathan? Where are you? For Queen of Hearts's sake, somebody help me!"

"_Jervis! What did you do to him?"_ If he had had some, his pupils would have widened.

"There is no need to worry. If you fulfill your task, he will be save."

"_I don't care for him."_

"This is a lie. I did my research, and you cannot deny that he is the one closest to what people call a friend."

"…" Granted, the voice had a point. _"What am I to do?"_

"You will learn it soon enough. But in case you are too eager to wait for the solution, I take the liberty to give you a helping hand. They say two heads are better than one, and consequently two minds in one head should be unbeatable."

"_Wait, can't you be a little more specific?"_

"Wake up. Wake..."

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><p>"...up, Monsieur, please! It is time."<p>

Someone was shaking his arm with soft insistence. Immediately Jonathan jolted up. An intensely white light blinded him for a few seconds before he recognized it as snow glaring in the sun. He had difficulties remembering last night's events, but certainly he was in more trouble than he had thought. Obviously, he was still stuck in the 19th century, for he saw the stranger standing before him, being about to exit the carriage with his hand resting on the door knob.

Finally, Crane was able to perceive his full person, which was enough to distract him from his gloomy worries about the dream he had had.

Besides the black beard and the hat – it turned out to be an astrakhan cap – he had spotted earlier, the man had piercing eyes of a remarkably clear, saturated green and ebony skin. His body was cloaked in a long overcoat of felt. Presently, he had an odd expression in his eyes when he said, "I will get out here – what is your destination, if I may ask?"

_Uhm..._ "I want to visit the Paris Opera House," he replied spontaneously. That book! The answer had to lie somewhere between its pages, so the opera was a place to start. But was he still in Paris? Alarmed, he forgot about the watch at his wrist and tried to estimate the hours he had spent sleeping.

"I guessed as much... It is close, about ten minutes of walking from here," the man uttered, apparently lost in thought.

Jonathan's momentarily relief was quickly replaced by surprise. "Really?" Jonathan raised an eyebrow in disbelieve. _How could he possibly know where I need to– _Not until now the villain noticed that "The Phantom of the Opera", which he had deliberately turned upside down to hide the title, had been moved. In its current position, the silvery letters were clearly readable. Quickly he picked it up and and tried to stand, instantly flinching when his head hit the low ceiling. _Ouch!_

The stranger could hardly repress a smile. "Watch out, I daresay you are unusually tall," he remarked with audible amusement. Then he threw his hands up and let them fall again as a gesture of apology. "I must confess I was curious," he explained, returning to his original topic, "I couldn't resist seeing what it is that you were clutching like a treasure when I met you in the street. I assure you, I merely read the title."

The two men stepped out of the carriage. In the meantime, it had stopped snowing. Crane watched the stranger throw a few coins up to the driver, who caught them with a simple, aimed movement of his hand he had learned from habit, and dashed off without hesitation. The man with the emerald eyes spoke up again, but this time the tone of his voice was serious. "You do not believe in the rumours of the ghost, do you?"

"I–" Well, what should he say? Crane could hardly tell the man that he was a time-traveller from the future, and neither that he doubted all this was really happening. Even the mere thought sounded too crazy. What he needed was a good story. "I am not sure about it. You see, I am a scientist from a remote country and I have a great interest in the myth of the opera ghost. For my private research." So far, so good. In fact, everything he had said was true, in a way.

"A scientist, you say? What is the purpose of your research?"

_Terrifying the ignorant beyond sanity! _, something in him blurted out with delight. Jonathan pretended not to notice it. "Proving that there are no chain-rattling ghosts but only humans with a superior mind."

Something in this statement shocked his bearded opposite. Immediately, the villain witnessed the jade-green pupils narrow and the expressive, black brows furrow. "How come you are so sure the Phantom is human?" At once, all kindness was gone.

Suddenly, it struck Crane that he had no clue how much of what he had read in the novel was public knowledge and how much was interior secrets only the characters could know. If it was true at all in this world, that is.

"I'm not, it's just my general creed," he corrected, which seemed to satisfy the stranger.

_Good explain-away_, an unwanted comment resonated in his head. Again Jonathen refused to take notice. His eyelid twitched with the effort.

"Monsieur, we should talk again sometime. I am eager to hear of the results of your work. For now I bid you a good day, for it is indeed a horribly cold morning. If you need me, just go to the opera down the alley" – the man pointed in direction of the entrance of a small street nearby – "and ask for 'the Persian'. I'm a regular there."

Interesting – so this was where the indefinable accent came from. Had he not heard of him before? Jonathan could swear that it was mentioned as a character in "The Phantom of the Opera". He made a mental not of reading beyond chapter twelve as soon as he would find time to spare. A contact like him could prove useful, he realized. "Agreed, thank you. So to them, you are only known as 'the Persian'?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The staff is not fond of my presence, I'm afraid." The Persian shrugged with indifference. "I much prefer to be called by my name, Nadir Khan. How can I address you, by the way?"

"Jonathan Crane's the name," he replied without thinking. Well, the people here could hardly know his future history – _what a paradox term!_ – so there was in fact no real need for an alias.

"Well then, . I'm looking forward to our next meeting." With this, the Persian turned and headed for a market square in the distance.

* * *

><p>Just nano-seconds later – literally – he heard a snicker, a dreadfully well-known one, which was, as he had learned in his early twenties, only audible to him. After the conversation in his dream, he had feared it would appear. At last, he was not able to ignore it any longer.<p>

_No, why you?_, he thought and rolled his eyes, exaggeratedly agonized.

_Missed me?_ the presence cooed, as annoyingly mocking as ever.

For two-and-a-half decades, presumably much longer, he had been sharing his body with this being which called itself 'the Scarecrow'.

Already before he had earned his master's degree in psychology he had known that having an alter ego was not exactly normal. Even now he was not entirely sure what had caused it (meaning that he couldn't quite decide which of his childhood traumata back in rural Iowa was responsible), but it had coined him from the very beginning. Offering mental support, occasionally brilliantly creative ideas, a mind he could talk to instead of aforementioned wall, but mainly superfluous comments, the Scarecrow shared a great deal of his personality and wishes – mostly.

Unfortunately, the Scarecrow could be horribly moody and, being as obsessed with fear as he was, come up with the most terrifying scenarios. Sometimes Jonathan consulted it as an inspirational source for his plans, sometimes he didn't, which always resulted in punishment in the form experiencing these firsthand in nightmares. He had gotten used to it by now and had stopped letting it affect him in any way. Usually, he pushed the Scarecrow back to a remote corner of his brain where he could ignore it until needed.

Still, in the end he had chosen his modus operandi and his nickname as a criminal, if not his whole life, based on it, despite the trouble. After all, this supported the split-personality-theory as the reason why he was always declared legally insane and, like most of Gotham's rogues, ended up in a madhouse instead of a common jail. As much as he found this insulting, it bore several advantages such as the fact that it was much easier to escape from there.

Presently, Jonathan tried his best to push the Scarecrow away again, but against all odds it would not work. Surely that voice from his dream had something to do with it! This second mind was rather a burden than being of assistance.

_Why go home when there's a whole new century to subject? C'mon, scary-face, let's have some fun!_ the Scarecrow started being helpful.

It continued rattling on about new possibilities and delusional power fantasies while Jonathan was fighting his growing headache. He sighed with resignation. This was going to be funny as hell.

* * *

><p><em>AN: It was bothering me that due to the balancing act between Batman and Phantom story, there was just no Scarecrow-y feeling in the writing. I hope to have fixed this with this chapter. On another note, I'm going to illustrate all chapters. I'll tell you when the first one is finished._  
><em>As always, thank you for reading, and if you have any comments, thoughts etc, I'd be happy if you shared them with me ;)<em>


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